


medicus manibus

by prowlish



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1527416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/pseuds/prowlish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eager. Eager had <em>always</em> been a good way to describe Drift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	medicus manibus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caius/gifts).



> Caius wrote me a smutty twitfic and then I decided I wanted to write this, with his blessing (and enthusiastic encouragement). This doesn't even try to have a plot. Hope you like, dude!
> 
> Also I still suck at titles.
> 
> Also: baby's first stickyfic. Oh my. 
> 
> My thanks to my good friend Mar for giving this a glance over for me, despite not being terribly interested in robots doing the do. :) You rock!

Eager. Eager had _always_ been a good way to describe Drift. He was so eager for Rodimus’s praise, so eager to fit in among the Autobots, so eager to distract Ratchet… especially when “distracting Ratchet” meant dragging him into the back room in the medibay reserved for medics on duty during the late/early shifts. Ratchet groused and grumbled and rolled his optics, but Drift smiled, able to sense the anticipatory energy just under the surface of the medic’s plating.

Hands gliding over Ratchet’s frame, Drift grinned when they were stopped short by the edge of the small bunk housed in this room. He dropped only the most fleeting of kisses to Ratchet’s chin and neck, slowly lowering himself… until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Drift paused, peering curiously up at Ratchet, who shook his helm. “What?” Drift said, already ready to pout -- this better not be one of Ratchet’s excuses for some kind of lecture about personal conduct or something…

But then he felt fingers slipping to his lips and he smiled again. “I see… wanted my mouth on something _else_ , hm?” Drift teased.

Ratchet scowled down at him, muttering for him to shut up, but Drift saw the way his plating ruffled in anticipation. Humming again, Drift let the first two fingers press past his lips, his mouth working eagerly over the sensitive digits. His reward was a soft gasp as Ratchet supported his weight more against the utility berth. Smiling again, Drift slid his glossa between the fingers in his mouth, tracing every seam and pathway of armor and tasting the clean tang of the metal. The hand on Drift’s shoulder squeezed as Ratchet choked off another sound, and he swore he could feel a full-body shiver as he snuck his glossa out to lick a wet path up Ratchet’s palm.

The fact that Ratchet enjoyed this just as much, if not more, than Drift’s mouth on his spike _really_ got Drift going.

As if sensing this, Ratchet loosened his grip on Drift’s shoulder and tugged him forward. Without even pausing in licking and suckling at Ratchet’s fingers, the swordsmech moved obligingly, turning and lifting himself up on the berth. Ratchet nudged his knees further apart around his hips, his free hand now skating up one of Drift’s sinful thighs. Anticipation tingled at the base of Drift’s spine, and spread up his back and through his tanks in an electric jolt when Ratchet’s touch moved to the panel between his legs.

Drift moaned around Ratchet’s fingers, and the medic shivered. “Frag, kid,” he panted, leaning his helm against Drift’s. The white mech shivered as Ratchet’s hand continued teasing and searching until his fingers hit the manual release and the panel snapped back, giving Drift another shiver up his spinal strut at the open air against his slick valve. Ratchet pushed two fingers into him, and once again, Drift moaned around the three fingers still shoved in his mouth. He enjoyed feeling Ratchet’s plating shivering against him nearly as much as the fingers in his valve.

And with the way Ratchet pressed his fingers hard into his mouth like he was trying to shove his hand down Drift’s throat, it was clear the medic was enjoying it just as much.

Drift spread his thighs ever more, rolling his hips forward with a whine. Trying to call Ratchet’s name while still sucking and nibbling at his fingers made an interesting sound -- nothing like Ratchet’s name, but Drift got the distinct feeling that the other mech didn’t care so much; Ratchet thrust his hand harder between Drift’s shapely thighs, making them tremble ever more with the way his fingers quickly found and stimulated the most sensitive nodes within him.

It was Drift’s turn to clutch desperately at Ratchet’s shoulders, vents panting and whining again as Ratchet lit up what felt like every single sensor in his valve. Now it was Drift coaxing Ratchet onto the berth, quickly rearranging limbs so Ratchet wasn’t long without his fingers in Drift’s mouth _or_ valve, those talented fingers thrusting back into him as he settled astraddle the medic’s waist. They both moaned as Drift rolled his hips down and into the motion of the medic’s hand, his valve squeezing around the three fingers working into him. He panted hot vents against Ratchet’s palm, making him shiver as Drift pressed sloppy kisses to the red plating, gazing down at him with overbright and half-shuttered optics.

Ratchet seemed to redouble his efforts, and Drift was swept away in bliss as the fingers in his valve curled and stroked, seeking more sweet spots -- and finding them. Another moan slipped through Drift’s parted lips, his helm tipping back slightly as he ground his hips into Ratchet’s hand, simply clinging to the medic’s other hand. So lost was he in the heat shivering up his back that he nearly missed the quiet _click_ of another panel opening, but it registered when he felt fingers slipping slowly -- reluctantly -- from his valve and the heat of Ratchet’s pressurized spike against his aft.

Drift smiled, gazing down at Ratchet again. The open look of hunger on the medic’s faceplates was enough to click his cooling fans up another notch. Ratchet’s hands grasped at Drift’s curvaceous hips, and Drift slipped his own down to cover them, both slick with lubricants from his valve and mouth, squeezing and watching the medic moan and rock against him. Anticipation corded through his tanks and down Drift’s spinal strut as he finally lifted his hips and sank himself down on Ratchet’s spike.

“Frag,” Ratchet groaned, thrusting his hips up, and Drift grinned, eagerly riding each movement. He squeezed the medic’s hands in time with every sensual roll of his hips, _immensely_ enjoying every twitch of Ratchet’s lips as he tried (and failed) to muffle grunts and moans. Shifting his hands a bit, Drift squeezed _tight_ at Ratchet’s fingers as the mech began hitting nodes deep in his valve. “ _Drift--_ ” he choked out, hands clutching hard to Drift’s hips, ignoring Drift’s steady rhythm and thrusting into his valve at a faster, harder tempo.

Tossing his helm back again, Drift gave several sharp cries of pleasure before overload rippled through him, bowing his back as he clenched Ratchet’s hands in a near mimic of his valve tightening around the medic’s spike. He heard a gasp beneath him, felt a hot rush of transfluid in his valve, and Drift smiled again, shivering as he felt the slow trickle of both their fluids from within him. He turned his gaze back down on Ratchet, sprawled on the berth with his intakes whirring, still sitting on his spike until Ratchet flickered his optics on and moved Drift off with a bit of a grimace.

Catching Drift’s gaze, he tried his best for a glower. “What is it with you and that dopey look, kid?” he grumbled.

Drift just laughed and leaned forward to kiss Ratchet on the nose.

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on [@prowlish](https://twitter.com/prowlish) on twitter!! :)


End file.
